


the jon spencer blues explosion

by greeneyedharpy



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco, Young Veins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-19
Updated: 2012-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-31 10:31:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greeneyedharpy/pseuds/greeneyedharpy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A future fic in which Jon isn't sure what he wants, and Spencer isn't sure if he wants it anymore. au, future fic, written in 2008, before the split.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the jon spencer blues explosion

Jon turns up to Spencer's house driving the same blue sedan he owned the first time Spencer, Ryan and Brendon visited him in Chicago. They teased him about it being a tired old rust-bucket then, Brendon's eyes shining with mischief as he'd asked Jon if he was sure the car could take them all. Jon had replied he was, grinning equally as wide when he and Ryan had manhandled him into the trunk.

Spencer almost laughs at the memory; almost smiles warmly at Jon, waiting for a hug that used to work better when he wasn't just that bit taller than Jon. But he doesn't. He doesn't because it's more important to be frowning, standing at his front door with his arms crossed over his chest, squinting because the sun is in his eyes and Jon’s shitty rust bucket is parked in his driveway.

 

Jon called him ten miles out from Spencer's place. "Be ready in ten," he'd said. "I want to go for a drive."

It was the first time Spencer - or anyone in the band for that matter - had heard from Jon since they'd decided after Ryan's wedding to extend their hiatus indefinitely.

 

It has been seven weeks.

 

Jon toots the horn of his car; it sounds tired, weary, and Spencer can sympathise. By rights he should be a lot of things right now. Confused, angry, upset; but he's not. He's tired because there's no fight left in him, not after phone calls gone unanswered, emails unreturned and the unchanging monotony of Jon's voice mail.

When Jon leans out his window and calls, "Are you coming?”, Spencer sighs. He pulls the door shut behind him and shuffles down the drive.

 

"Have you told Brendon and Ryan you're here?"

 

Spencer’s had seven weeks of silence from Jon. Seven weeks where the emails started out buoyant and happy, full of _wish you were here_ ’s and _you should come hang out, we miss you_ ’s and voicemails, _“Jon, you suck. Answer your goddamn phone, or I’ll fly out there and live on your couch…”_ _“Come on, Jon. It’s no fun trying to convince Brendon that there’s going to be a live-action remake of Aladdin when you’re not here to help me…”_ and were made every single day. At the end of their first week without Jon, Ryan made him look up co-dependency in the dictionary and then stared at Spencer when he tried to argue that he missed Jon no more than Brendon and Ryan. 

When the weeks passed and Spencer got nothing but silence from Jon, he stopped calling. Stopped writing. Stopped any attempts at communication except for the occasional phone call in the moments when he was really missing Jon. But Jon never answered, and Spencer would hang up the phone certain that Jon would never answer, maybe didn’t even want to answer.

After five weeks, Spencer decided maybe that was for the best.

 

Of all the things Spencer wants to say to Jon, _have you told Brendon and Ryan you're here_? is so far down the list it isn't even a contender, but he can't take the words back now, hanging between them cold and reprimanding. He sighs and picks at the seam of his jeans.

"Not yet," Jon replies without taking his eyes off the road. He hasn't yet, not even to look at Spencer once. It's so wrong that he can't even feel at ease sitting in a car with Jon, who used to understand him better than Ryan sometimes. Sure, Spencer can name times when they fought, or disagreed, or when things were awkward between them, but they were always over small things, forgotten in fifteen minutes. 

Spencer takes a deep breath. "Also, you're a fucking idiot." A thread comes loose from his jeans. There's probably going to be a hole there now.

Jon blinks. Thirty seconds passes where Spencer believes that Jon is going to defend himself, but then he blinks again, sneezes, and wipes his hand on his jeans before returning his hand to the steering wheel.

“Sorry,” he says, then turns the radio on.

 

Fifteen minutes pass, and Spencer counts five songs on the radio that he doesn’t recognise. "Where are we going?" he asks and is answered with a shrug. So is, "When are we going to be back?"

"Jon," Spencer tries in various ways; stern, concerned, resigned, sad, tired. Jon's lips quirk upwards just slightly every time.

"Spence," he returns, and then they both lapse into silence. Spencer tries to put his feet up on the dash, sit like he used to in Ryan's car when Ryan needed to escape and wanted some company, but it's harder now. There's less room in Jon's car and his legs are longer than they used to be. They start cramping after a couple of minutes and when Spencer hisses in pain and stretches his fingers out to massage his leg muscles, Jon doesn't even bat an eyelash.

 

They drive for an hour, maybe two in silence. Spencer tries tuning the radio but they're so far out now that the bursts of static are more frequent than the bad country songs.

"What am I doing here?" he wonders, and it's only when Jon replies, "I don't know," that Spencer realises he's been thinking out loud.

 

He should stop this. He should put an end to Jon's stupid silence and get answers. It should be easy to confront Jon about his shitty behaviour; easier still to get Jon to take him home. It makes sense, Spencer reflects, staring at the empty expanse of road in front of them. Whatever he'd been expecting from Jon when he got in the car, silence was not it. Nor is it what he wants, not after seven weeks.

"What are you doing, Jon Walker?" Spencer questions, turning his head to study Jon's face - or what he can see of it. Jon hasn't shaved in what is probably months and his skin has a slightly unhealthy pallor. Even angry, upset and confused as he is, Spencer still worries. 

Jon doesn't reply; doesn't take his eyes off the road. He chews at his bottom lip, and Spencer wishes he could know whether Jon is listening to him at all.

 

By the time they arrive back at Spencer's place, it's well after dark and Spencer's cat is asleep on his welcome mat. She's probably starving. Spencer should really go inside and feed her, but his hand stills on the seatbelt buckle. He stares at Jon. They both say nothing. Spencer keeps taking deep breaths; keeps opening his mouth to say something but he has too many choices. There are too many phrases running through his head, jumping at the chance to be heard.

"Don't stay away for so long next time fuckhead," is supposed to be _Do you want to come in for coffee, maybe tell me why you're all weird_? but his good sense has taken leave of him. It doesn't really surprise him that he actually means it, all the way down to calling Jon a fuckhead, so he quickly undoes his seatbelt and tries to jump out of the car. Jon doesn't even laugh, doesn't even smile or try to make a joke of his stupid fucking silence.

"See you later, Spencer."

Spencer hates Jon's dumb, impassive face. He hates that Jon is so closed off that he can't read anything in his eyes like he used to, across the dressing room before a show, in an interview with a particularly clueless journalist, hell, even in conversations with Brendon and Ryan. His fingers curl over the open window like he could change his mind at any second and wrench the door open and not get out of the car until Jon's explained everything.

But he doesn't. "Soon, Jon." 

It's possibly the kindest thing he's said all day. Jon nods, still blank and stupidly unreadable, but a minute later it doesn't matter. Jon is halfway down the street in his shitty sedan and Spencer is still standing in his drive, wondering when Jon got so good at lying to him.

 

Spencer gets up the next day before nine – a habit he's only gotten into since the band went on hiatus – drinks his coffee, and decides he's going to paint his kitchen wall. 

Removing all the stuff he has hanging on the wall is easiest, so he does that first and stacks it all neatly in the living room. Taking the shelves down is more difficult. The real estate agent swore up and down that the genius of the kitchen was that the shelves could be moved and rearranged at the whim of whoever lived here. 

He's been wrestling the same shelf off the wall for half an hour when his phone buzzes.

"Ha ha!" he says out loud, climbing down off his chair. "Ryan Ross, no excuse will get you out of helping me this time." 

There is no one around to hear him, not even his cat Josie, so he indulges himself in a slightly maniacal laugh and then – rubbing his hands on his sweat pants to get the dust off – swears to himself that he's never going to do it again. Just because he has a lot of empty days ahead of him with just he and his cat, doesn't mean he needs to take a leap to card-carrying crazy just yet.

The text isn't even from Ryan anyway. Spencer checks it twice, just to be sure.

_im outside_ , it says. Spencer hates the thrill that darts through his body before he has a chance to be sensible about this. Just because Jon's back, it doesn't mean anything, especially not after yesterday. The shelf is still in his hands, so he rests it against the kitchen bench and leans back, sighing at his phone.

_Sorry Jon, I can't._

_cant what?_

_Do this._

Only Spencer isn't brave enough to send that. He stares at the blinking cursor like he's engaged in a battle of wills. He loses when he jabs his thumb at the backspace key. _Go driving_ , he sends instead.

It's quiet enough that Spencer can hear when a car door slams outside, but there's no way of telling whether or not it was Jon's. Spencer stays leaning against the kitchen bench listening for what happens next. A car engine coughing to life, he supposes. Jon will drive off down the street.

There's only silence though, then a knock at his door. A second later and his phone buzzes.

_let me in?_

Spencer doesn't move for a minute, staring at his phone because he can't believe that his friendship with Jon has come to this. He probably should be more horrified at himself for not wanting to open the door, but then Jon knocks again and calls out Spencer's name. Spencer pushes off the bench and tries to be nonchalant about moving through the house to the front door. By the time he gets there, he's almost succeeded in convincing himself that it's entirely possible things will be back to normal, that he's just been imagining the past seven weeks.

"Hey." He smiles and pulls the door open. "I woke up this morning and decided my kitchen needs painting."

Spencer knows there's no reason to blush when Jon looks him up and down. Jon has seen him in crappier – and less – than the sweat pants and t-shirt he has on now.

"I can help," Jon shrugs. He doesn't even bother to phrase it like a question. It rankles with Spencer, how different things are. This isn't his Jon. This isn't the Jon that Spencer wants to spend his time with, but he doesn't say no. He isn't surprised at himself to find that he can't.

Spencer curls in on himself a little bit, hunching his shoulders forward. "The kitchen is this way."

"I remember," Jon says quietly, and it takes all of Spencer's self control not to bite back that he's surprised Jon would.

 

They don't make small talk, partly because they shouldn't have to but also because Spencer doesn't know what to say to Jon. Seven weeks out of ten years of friendship is hardly the end of the world or even life-changing but it's still enough to hurt.

"Grab a chair and help me get these shelves down." 

They push and pull the shelves off the wall for an hour, unscrewing and tugging and swearing under their breaths. Josie pokes her head in once or twice – the second time leaping up onto Jon's chair to curl around his legs – but skitters away when Jon nearly overbalances.

Spencer leaps off his chair and stands back to study the wall in front of him, and Jon follows suit, sneakers slapping on the tiles. 

"Spencer, where's your paint?"

And okay, Spencer hasn't thought up to that bit yet. He only decided to paint his kitchen this morning, in what is the most spur of the moment decision he's made in years. He should be forgiven for not having paint yet.

"Spencer Smith," Jon says low, amused and warm. There's a gleam of something in his eyes that makes Spencer's stomach surge in a way he's never really wanted to deal with. "Spencer Smith, have you ever painted a wall before?"

The answer is no, but Jon doesn't get to know that, if he doesn't already. From the way Jon is smiling, Spencer suspects he probably does.

"I am going to buy some paint now, if you must know," He raises his chin defiantly, inviting argument, but Jon's still smiling at him, which. Fuck Jon Walker, he doesn't get to do that until he's explained his weird behaviour.

"Come on, I'll drive," he says and smirks all the way to the car, because Spencer doesn't argue once.

 

Apparently when you're painting even just one measly wall in a house you need a lot more than just brushes and paint. The Home Depot they go to is less of a store and more a small European country in disguise. Spencer hasn't been here since he was twelve and he and Ryan got lost pushing each other around in the shopping carts. The never-ending aisles and giant shelves had been imposing then, and fifteen years later, nothing has changed.

Jon keeps throwing things in the cart as they go. Spencer counts four different types of brushes, a big tray and some big sheet-y thing. He's also pretty sure that Jon threw in a packet of picture hooks and some nails, but as he was totally and absolutely _not_ watching Jon Walker – in fact, he was actually intently studying one of the cleaning products Jon threw in – he can't be certain. 

The cart is half full before they even get to the paint. Obviously they have – Jon has – gone overboard somewhere. Probably with the paint roller Jon insists they need, with an arm that can extend to six feet.

"We're not painting the Sistine fucking Chapel." Spencer rolls his eyes, pointedly setting it back on the shelf. But Jon spends the next two minutes following six feet behind Spencer poking him with it.

"I'm going to buy it if you won't."

Spencer is never letting Jon help with renovations ever again.

 

By the time they get to the paint section, they've also acquired sponges of varying shapes, sizes and textures, just in case Spencer wants to make his wall "really pop." Those are Jon's exact words. Spencer nearly laughs.

"You're so gay," he mutters, but the sponges end up going in anyway.

Spencer is content to browse the seemingly endless wall of paint samples, picking up a card occasionally, studying it and then setting it back down next to the other cards of similar shades. He has to take his time, pick the right color, or else he'll be back in a week, doing it all over again.

Jon doesn't have that patience. He collects handfuls of cards showing them one by one to Spencer, talking him through each possible combination. Metallic finish paints, suede finish, mattes and glosses. 

"These two would look good if you do the sponge thing."

He's holding up a brown card and a cream one. It would make Spencer's kitchen wall look like a cappuccino. Despite his caffeine dependency, Spencer is not going to live inside a cappuccino.

"I'm not doing the sponge thing, Jon."

Jon looks at the cards and shuffles the brown and cream to the back of the pile. "So why are there sponges in the cart?"

Spencer's angry, strangled noise speaks volumes for the situation. It also draws the attention of a sales assistant who waits until Jon is fishing the sponges out of the cart to approach Spencer.

"Perhaps you would like to browse the samples book over at the counter?" She has a sympathetic smile fixed in place and a 'Hi-My-Name-Is-Mary-Ann' tag pinned to the front of her shirt. Spencer doesn't really think he needs to; there is a gargantuan wall of samples right here for his choosing.

"I'm fine, tha—"

"Hey Spence!" Jon calls out, reappearing at the top of the aisle. He's holding a hideous pink and green pastel thing in his hands. "What about this wallpaper strip-y thing?"

Spencer turns away from him, back to 'Hi-My-Name-Is-Mary-Ann' very deliberately. "On second thought, I really think I would," Spencer hurries after her before Jon can find another monstrosity. 

"Don't worry," she says and her sympathetic smile is still in place. "In my experience, husbands and boyfriends never have any taste."

Spencer smiles at her, laughs and is ready to supply an anecdote, but… Wait, what? Spencer and Jon, they haven't… they've never…

"We're–" Spencer starts to say – they're _not!_ – but then Jon is right behind him, hovering over his shoulder.

"That's a good color," He shelves his chin on Spencer's shoulder, which, woah. It’s the first bit of physical contact they’ve had since Ryan’s wedding, where they’d crashed together in the one bed, too tired and drunk to wonder whether or not they were too old to keep doing this, whether it would still work when they weren’t a band anymore. 

The color Jon is pointing at is a rich, vibrant red, and Spencer knows with a sinking feeling that it would be perfect for his kitchen.

"I like it," he says dully, and maybe it's unfair to be so closed off to Jon, but things aren't really fair right now, so he's not going to lose sleep over it. "I'll take that one."

Mary Ann smiles at them and writes down the stock code on a Post-It. "I'll just check that we have it in stock for you."

Jon's smile disappears as soon as she slips through a big green door.

"What is wrong with you?" Jon asks, tone rumbly and low.

"I was wondering the same about you."

Jon frowns for a moment. "This isn't about me."

Well, fine. Two can play at that game, Spencer thinks, and changes the subject.

"The sales girl thinks you're my boyfriend."

"What did you say to her?" The change in Jon's tone is so drastic that Spencer actually turns to look at him. He’s wearing that stupid unreadable expression again.

"What's the big deal?" Spencer asks, but Mary Ann returns, so Jon shrugs and says nothing.

"Here you are!" she announces cheerily and hoists the large tin onto the counter. The lid pops open with a satisfying, liquid rush of air. "Is this the one you want?"

Spencer gets so close that he can see his reflection, red and glossy, staring back at him.

"It's perfect."

 

Jon goes silent after that. He's silent all the way back to the counter, and puts the roller back on the way past. Spencer rolls his eyes while Jon's back is turned, and if Jon looks back in time to catch the tail end of it, he doesn't care. Let Jon know that he's pissed. Spencer doesn't even expect this sort of behaviour from Brendon anymore. He thought they were so past that. But Jon dutifully carries half the stuff to the car, so Spencer doesn't say anything.

Yet.

It's only a fifteen minute car ride back to Spencer's house, but Spencer can't stand the silence and Jon's stupid, ridiculous angst, so he switches on the radio, tapping out the rhythms to the songs he recognises and ignoring the ones he doesn't. He wants to say _something_ to Jon; opens his mouth a couple of times to do so, but he always hesitates. At home, he tells himself. It'll be so much easier if he's somewhere familiar and comforting.

 

They're at the top of the street when one of their songs comes on the radio. It's not _I Write Sins Not Tragedies_ – Spencer can't express how much relief he feels at that – but Jon twitches and stabs it off anyway. 

And god, that? That is what pushes Spencer over the edge. Not his stupid silence and sad eyes and those fucking looks that Spencer can't make heads or tails of. No, Spencer just, he…

"For fuck's sake," he spits it out so violently it surprises even himself, "Fuck, _Jon_."

Tires crunch over the asphalt, loose where rain and constant use have worn potholes and neighbourhood kids have subjected the road to assorted abuses. "I don't fucking get you," Spencer continues on. "Why are you even fucking here? You don't talk to us for seven weeks and then you come up here so you can not talk to us in person? What the fuck, man. Do Brendon and Ryan even know you're here?"

Spencer can hear the next-door neighbours screaming and splashing in the swimming pool, their dog barking to be a part of the revelry. If Spencer winds down his window, he'd be able to hear the summer breeze through the trees. He could probably hear everything going on his block.

"Go home, Jon," Spencer sighs, opening the car door. He's tired. He doesn't want to play these stupid games anymore. "Just…go back to Chicago."

Walking up the driveway, he doesn't turn once to look at Jon, not when Jon's car door opens, not when he hears Jon's desperate, " _Spencer_."

It's simultaneously the easiest and hardest thing he's ever done.

He fumbles with his keys trying to open the door when Jon's hand falls on his shoulder. "Spence," he says with the same desperation.

"Jon," Spencer huffs and turns around, but he doesn't get any further than that because Jon is kissing him – really kissing him – pushing him back against the front door. He threads his hands through Spencer's hair, kissing him like he's giving Spencer all the answers he needs. Maybe he is. 

Spencer feels his stomach drop away when Jon pushes his tongue past the seam of Spencer's lips. He still has Spencer pressed up against the door; the knob and his keys are digging into his back. It's all lost on Spencer though, too focussed on how good Jon's hands feel in his hair, the taste of coffee on Jon's tongue.

"Spencer," Jon pants, resting his forehead against Spencer's, who can't stop looking at Jon's lips. "Spencer," Jon says again and Spencer's pretty sure it's intentional when Jon's hands slip from his hair to his ass. 

"I'm still so mad at you," Spencer replies. He's not going to let himself be easily won, not just by one kiss after ten years of friendship. 

"Spencer," Jon says, he steps forward so now they're pressed together, and Spencer gasps because _fuck_. Every nerve ending in Spencer's body is on fire. "I'm so in love with you."

"What?" Spencer, he. It's just. Jon. Even if Spencer… oh god. "Jon," he says, his voice wavering. 

"It's not… I didn't stay away just because of that," Jon's forehead is still pressed against Spencer's. He speaks with his eyes closed, his breath ghosting over Spencer's face. "It's stupid, I know. It's just…" He kisses Spencer again, like he has no more words, but the contact can explain everything.

"You're such an asshole," Spencer sighs.

"I know." Jon opens his eyes again, "Will you let me in anyway?"

Spencer turns around and wonders.

Then he opens the door.


End file.
